Submit Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

Best Childhood Poems

Below are the all-time best Childhood poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of childhood poems written by PoetrySoup members

Search for Childhood poems, articles about Childhood poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Childhood poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See Also:

New Childhood Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Childhood poems are below this new poems list.

Childhood Friend by Sands, Heidi
Childhood Memories by Buhagiar, Victor
Childhood entertainment revisited by Peers, Chris
Childhood in New York by Tirino, Ronald
Stolen Childhood by Y., Alexis
My Childhood Marigold Memories by Daniel, Jo
Could Someone Bring Back My Childhood by NEGI, KISHAN
Is Garbage Dump My Childhood by NEGI, KISHAN
Childhood Beach Outing by hoffman, cheryl

View all new Childhood Poems

The Best Childhood Poems

Details | Childhood Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

First Communion

The powdery snow gloves the fingers 
of maple forest, protecting barren bark 
with the expectation of rose tipped bloom.

A meeting point between pristine
innocence and the veiled promise of spring
ripening. Each trunk and limb mirrors 

the action of man. Reaching, arching, 
swaying, creating aisles of church-like splendor, 
a sacrament where the virginal may walk

toward communion with their God. Inward 
toward the birth of faith and outward toward 
the wedgwood sky in celestial sight.

Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2011

Details | Childhood Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.



So young, I was, and so naive There was no doubt, I did believe this babe who's latched inside my womb with ties we had,... would always be Latched on was he, as he was fed then later days, our hands instead Not tall enough to open gates I would reach the latch for his escape In time he grew to need more space The cord we had, still had it's place The loving ties from birth, so long were gently stretching.., moving on, yet still remaining full and strong In time he grew, to be a man Our bond had changed, but still lives on He fell in love, as it should be His bond with her, I'm glad to see doesn't mean our own is gone Songs are sung when lovers part but no song for a mother's heart When new adventures come one day and new roads take him far away The man he is, has been set free to be the man he wants to be The child he was is never gone She's letting go, yet holding on If once, one wish, were mine to choose so many would my thoughts pursue But one within my heart still yearns for just one day, the clocks would turn Together you and I would be sitting there among the trees I would lift you up upon my knee just as we did when you were three…
___________________________________________________________________ For Francine's Contest: Children In Rhyme

Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2011

Details | Childhood Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

She read me Dr Seuss

6:35 A.M.

Sunrise against my neck
that no cheap tan booth could ever match.

I ring the doorbell in anticipation of joy’s injection.

I needed it.

Because I left my cell phone in the car,
as I didn’t want to hear any chimed email
or text annoyances.

And the car just got cleaned,
only for the birds to have their way
on its waxy shine.


Time to grab the flamethrower from my trunk!

But, before I could scream in Braveheart declaration,
there she was.

Her 6 yr old smile,
made of 1/4 inch gaps between innocence enamel,
captured me like no other could.

“Tio”, she preached in angelica sonata.

As she held me,
held me,
with puppy love warmth.

Even the rainbows fell to its knees.

She took off my jacket with ferret-like perkiness and
asked me to sit on the floor with her.

But, not before offering to toast me some Eggo waffles
with a big glass of Ovaltine…
…in her Little Mermaid glass,
proudly made in North Korea.

It even had the dictator’s initials and a bucktooth smiley face stamp, signed in glitter
that said:

Thank God I just took my online course in Child Safety.
I was ready!

As I sip on Little Mermaid’s curves,
shaped in plastic, swirly straw weirdness,
a sound blasts off from a Barbie radio.

My 2 yr old angel galloped into this heart of mine,
with Tinnitus piercing scream & laughter,
tackling me in Incredible Hulk lunge.

“Hi Tio”, she whispered, before she hopped back upstairs, 
Ninja Turtle-style,
laughing maniacally with rapid head tilts, left to right to left.

Boys will fear her. 
And I couldn’t be more proud.

After two moments of silence, 
my 6 yr old angel places her Dr. Seuss book on my lap,
as she sits in front of me.

“I can r-r-read
with my eye-s

She carefully completed the sentence,
as my eyes instantly fill with leaky pride
and an ingrained smile.

10 minutes later, she shut her book and asked me how she did.
“I am so proud of you my angel.”
“You have come so far.”

I had to hold back tears because I didn’t want to throw her off.
Yet I think she knew,
because she kept her head down and smiled with gentle starburst.

Mission accomplished.

And it was then where I heard her say,
“Those who matter don’t mind,
those who mind don’t matter.”

But she was quiet, looking at me with tilted head & smile.

For it was my inner child, 

© Drake J. Eszes

Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2011

Details | Childhood Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.



The old man sat with eyes closed, dozing in his chair
Until a little voice he heard say “Grandpa, are you there”.

He gazed upon a little boy while waking from his nap
Then reached down with a sweeping move and placed him in his lap

The child was carrying a book that he wanted him to see
He held it up and  asked him “Grandpa, will you read to me”?

The old man cleaned his glasses then opened up the book
And suddenly the two of them a wonderous journey took

They ventured lands so far away, sailed seas not sailed before
Met knights and kings and wizards on every distant shore.

Together they fought dragons, saved damsels in distress
Freeing lands of monsters and the treasures they possess

When the old man closed the cover to end their magic ride
He told the boy “We're much like books, what's important is inside”.

But one day when the boy arrived and rushed to Grandpas chair
Much to his disappointment, his Grandpa was not there

He ran to find his mother for surely she would know
Why the chair was empty, where did his Grandpa go

She sat him down and asked him if he remembered in each book
The adventures and the journeys that he and Grandpa took

He took you there to show you the things that you can find
The wonders that are yours to see if you open up your mind.

But he still walks beside you in the stories you have read
You're not left to go alone, he’s just gone on ahead

The child then went and chose a book and climbed up in the chair
And opening up the cover whispered “Grandpa, are you there”?

Copyright © Bob Quigley | Year Posted 2011

Details | Childhood Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.


On your last breath.. I told you there was nothing to forgive Stubbornness and bitterness - sure are a hard pill to swallow Four years and not a word from you How sad - your last words were full of rage No chance to rectify them - you left without saying a word In reality, you walked out a long time ago Tell me father - who was to teach me how to be a man? Tell me father - who was to teach me how to be a dad? Guess you didn't know yourself - for a father you never proved to be Lost with your demons - intoxicated by the evils of society The fear you caused to so many - did you ever ask yourself why? Leaving those who loved you behind - to chase decadence Seduced by sinful deeds - your forgot you had a son Isn't a father supposed to be a child's hero? Even from a distance - I still loved you for being my dad You made me strong - told me never to cry Forgive me father - the tears didn't stop when I saw you dying It was too much to hold them for so long - guess I'm only human But, I promise you - I have not shed another tear since that day You told me - son live to be feared - no need to be loved But, I don't want to be like you - I have too much love to give I guess you were right - after all I am my mother's son You had your favourites and I guess I wasn't one of them In reality - it is because of you I am so strong because, I never wanted to be anything like what you had become I know that you're looking down at me from up above Tell me father - are you proud? Of all that I have become? For at the end of the day it's your name I have Cancer took you away - does it make you happy I survived? You can't really miss something that you never had Guess, I will always wonder what it is like to have a dad You took away my childhood - but I hold nothing against you Life was dysfunctional, but I didn't succumb to your manipulation All is forgiven - I hold no grudges - life is full of challenges Sometimes your thoughts cross mind - but then they just go away I know you were misunderstood But I hope you found your peace today.. 13 October 2015

Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2015

Details | Childhood Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Teddy Bear-

My sweet little Teddy Bear...
Mommy gave 'YOU' to me
Now I never sleep alone at night
The comfort you gave, when God's sunny eyes ran out of light

You are my sweet little teddy bear... 
You kept me company throughout the years
I hugged you, when my eyes were full of tears
Loving you, squeezing you
We both express many joyful dance of cheers
Together we sang lullabies, without you singing one single word
We drank from the same teacup, whispered about the pretty birds
Now listen, as I mumble extra words into your ear
My sweet Teddy Bear, you are always here

We snuggled every night staring at the star frame window
"You held my hand when I was lost in my own imaginary limbo

My sweet little Teddy Bear...
I'm 11 now, and my mother loves me dearly
Sadly, she felt it's time to find me a daddy
Little does she knows, my daddy visits every night in my dreams

Now her boyfriend visits my room and tells me not to scream
Little Teddy bear, I never showed you fear before I fell asleep
Little Teddy bear, tonight I do not want to count sheep
Teddy bear, now I hold you closer and tighter than before
Little Teddy Bear let me cover your ears, from the screeching door
Little Teddy Bear, he said he would hurt mommy If I tell anyone
Little Teddy Bear, I know you see and hear everything!!!

by; pd
You're A Little Kid Again (contest)
The View of an 11 year old

Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2012

Details | Childhood Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Boy oh boy and a girl

I wish to claim
My boyness
My yesterday sillyness
Innocent shyness
My crinkled nose grininess
That hide and seekiness
Spin the bottle 
kind of geekiness 

Getting caught 
My hand in the cookie jarness
That pushing too farness
Collecting comic charminess 
Pulling pigtales
Stolen kisses
Hidden playboy kinda business
Cop a feel inquisitiveness

Being a bit
Self conscience  
A true life witness
Loving the mysterious 
Laughing more than being serious
Feeling delirious 
Not afraid
Somewhat curious

About adultness
What it was all aboutness
Thinking that it lead to freeness
I'd know just how to be ness
Eating what I want 
Staying up late kinda keeness

Now I wonder
What was the rushness
To reach adultness
Full of it's doubtiness
What's it all aboutness
I witness it's dreamlessness
It's no longer about me-ness
More mundane
To much sane-ness
Routine and sameness
No one cares if you cameness
Less is less
And more is moreness
Can't see the trees
Through the dark forest

So grab onto your girliness
I'll bring my boyness
There will be more
Way more 
No more boringness 
We'll spin in circles
Enjoy our dizziness 
After all
Having fun
Is a serious business!

I wrote this one in December 2014. 
I am now proud to enter it into Shadow's contest.
I hope you have as much fun reading as I had writing it.

Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2014

Details | Childhood Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

The Return

The air is thick with memory -
A fog of reminiscence.
Or is it simply mist 
Rolling through the window? 
I feel the wind and taste the salt,
Hear the distant pulse of waves 
Keeping time, skipping beats
With my haunted heart.
The wind chimes sway and croon
From their place above the sill,
Where sand dollars still form a row
Among crumbs of sand.
And there, on the bedside table -
Speckled stones arranged just so.
And if I lift them, I know
I'll find dustless circles,
Halos from the past.
My vision blurs.
Then I see her in the doorway -
The ghost of childhood,
Twirling in a cloud of skirts,
Strings of seashells draped like gems
Around her fragile neck.
I blink - 
And she's gone.
But through the mist I hear  
The patter of bare feet
Down the empty hallway.

By Heather Ober
Submitted to Nette's "Mixed Senses" contest
*This is an old poem I wrote on March 7, 2012

Copyright © Heather Ober | Year Posted 2012

Details | Childhood Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Will You Tie My Shoes When I Grow Old

You were beautiful, 
my tiny child, 
wrapped tightly in my arms, 
close to my heart.
I listened to you breathing.
I counted your fingers
and your toes.
you cried out to me
and I loved you
with every ounce of my soul.

Will you hear me
when I cry out? 
Will you hold me close
as I held you then? 

I remember the day
You took your first step.
There was no stopping you.
Your feet gave you freedom
to explore the world
like never before
but danger lurked.
I opened those doors anyway, 
and introduced
you to the world.
Where will you be
when my legs
no longer run? 
no longer work? 
Will you realize
that I love
freedom too? 

I laugh
about that day
you first tied your shoe.
We tried and tried
to get that rabbit
in that hole
and you finally did it.
You pointed your toes
for everyone to see
how proud you were.

I am proud too, 
of my writing
and my drawing, 
of my needlework
and my cooking.
But my hands are beginning to ache
and my fingers will not bend.
I will lose the things
that make me proud
except for you.
Hopefully not you.
Will you let me
brag on you? 
Even tell wild stories
that are a bit beyond the truth? 
Will you be proud of me too? 

I waved good-bye
that morning when you left
on that large, yellow bus.
I was so scared.
I know you were too.
You waved at me bravely
through the dusty window
but I saw the water
forming in your eyes.
You came home, however, 
full of pride and joy.
You sang the alphabet song
and got most of it right.
You practiced for hours
until you could sing it
even in your sleep.

I'm afraid.
I forgot
whether I took
my pills today or not.
I forgot
if I told this story before.
I even forgot once
who you were
and it terrified me.
My mind
is my treasure
the only thing I have left, 
and I heard you make
fun of me
for not remembering
that I gave you the
same gift as last year.
Will you love me
when I no longer
know who I am? 

You came home blushing
from the glow of
your first kiss.
Your first love, 
the one you thought was real.
You talked about him non-stop.
You changed for him. You gave.
But he left you anyway
for a blue-eyed girl
and I held you
while you cried for him.

I too have a
broken heart.
The love of my life
left me after
fifty-six years.
He left me here
to live life on my own
while he moved on
to another realm
And I cry for him too.
I long for his shoulder
and strong embrace.
I feel betrayed
because he and I
made a deal
that we would never
leave the other alone.
Yet I am alone
sitting in an echoing house
with no hands to hold.

You welcomed her home today- 
your tiny baby girl.
She has your eyes
and possibly your toes.
I see you counting them
as they roll me
into the room.
You finally came
to visit.
It has been a while.

You look up at me
with tears in your eyes
and ask
almost desperately, 

"Will she tie my
when I get old? "

Copyright © Rachel Kovacs | Year Posted 2013

Details | Childhood Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

First Love

Returning home again after many years away
I find our secret path along the Fundy Bay
That happy place where long ago we played
Where all our dreams and promises were made

Once again I lie down where daises grow
In fields above the banks where salt winds blow
Golden memories rush through my hungry soul
Returning pieces of my heart lost long ago

I close my eyes recalling all the things we did
Just the way they were when we were kids
And I know without a doubt that you are here
As your love for me falls from my eyes in tears

We lie like angels looking up at clouds of cream
As we watch them take the shape of all our dreams
We laugh so hard at all the things we do and say
To us life is just a stage a place to laugh and play

We find the trail that takes us down to meet the ocean
Where we swim in waves of jubilant emotions
Then we walk along the shore together hand-in-hand
And we write our love forever in the sand


Author:  Elaine George
Post Comments

Copyright © Elaine George | Year Posted 2010

Details | Childhood Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

The Old House

Seven generations walked through your door,
Which stood so strong and always welcomed in.
You said goodbye when boys headed to war,
Two soldiers lost to battles they can’t win.

Your kitchen always busy as a bee,
With canning, baking apple crumble cake.
Stone hearth, a place for warmth and drink some tea,
The table decked with riches to partake.

The living room a place to sit and chat,
With pictures hanging for one hundred years.
A chair still there where ancestors once sat,
This room for laughter and at times for tears.

Your nursery where many babies grew,
With bassinet where ev’ry child did lie.
The paint would change at times from pink to blue,
A place where time would always quickly fly.

The floors within have felt each child’s first walk,
Their worn out wood drowned many times with stain.
You watched the aging people gently rock,
You’ve heard and felt the tapping of a cane.

I stand and listen in your sacred halls
And feel that you’re a part of everyone.
Each breath we took embedded in your walls,
Of fathers, mothers, daughters and of sons.

Old house of stone your warmth embraces me,
Your children now all scattered far and wide.
You still stand proud for all the world to see,
The thoughts of you, sweet memories inside.

The house my children grew up in.

Iambic Pentameter  
Written by Brenda Meier-Hans 
Giorgio’s Contest: Iambic Verse III
Best of 2014  1st place

Copyright © Brenda Meier-Hans | Year Posted 2014

Details | Childhood Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Toddler Sky

-Toddler Sky-

Down where I sleep, 
You hold me, embrace my every way
The Marks up on my skin
You caress, taking away from the ugliness

Watching the simple breath, when I breathe
Breaking the ice, soothing my inner peace
A sweet spray across the paleness in my limbs
Holding the warmth, I've been loved throughout my life.
From picking up sticks to the walking stick
My loving dear I know you will always be there
A few wheel chairs, when broken bones mend
You know my every cure*
Walk with me across the hall
Through the oldness, and the boldness of every color in the sky
Thank you for taking me as I am
A light twinkle' every time I feel the colors of the rainbow drip
Now a newborn takes his form
In you I find the strength to stretch my arms and reach for every star

When happy moments fail, 
I embraced the colors I found in you
I make out every tree, and wonder why and how?
I close my eyes to imagine the fun of chasing fireflies
Tonight I'm keeping my prayers simple, cute, and innocent
I will count sheep and search for sweet lullaby dreams
Smiling like a 3 year old this very moment, 
You think I'm having "Baby Blues."
My loving dear, thanks for having patience,
Painting my way down a toddlers sky
Every time  "P M S" hits


Copyright © SKAT A | Year Posted 2013

Details | Childhood Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Things That Seemed Poetic

Things that seemed poetic were always sad,
though I yearned for sparkle
and my dad's guffaw, which never came.
Familiar things were always drear --
repeated motions in the same old game.
There were only distant glimpses
of budding spring, fleeting views
of daffodils. The strongest
poems dealt me death and dying.
Yet I always hoped, never went under
to gray despair, always dreaming
of a garden of love that we could share.
But those forbidden delights faded
quickly away; the only reality
I understand is the ever-looming
and final one. Nothing's changed.
The strongest poems deal death and dying.

Copyright © Leo Larry Amadore | Year Posted 2011

Details | Childhood Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.


Walls of silence hold,
 Me prisoner,
The child held within,
 Cries out for release.
Relative solitude comforts, 
Not the tortured soul,
Inward coiling withdrawing,
 Deep inside. 
Shedding its outer skins,
Layer thus preserving its,
 Inner being.
Innocents shroud lies in ruins.
Gentle spirit, cast aside wings,
 Damaged appendages.
The fallen angel kneels in,
Shadows before mankind.
Unanswered prays rest upon,
 Deaf ears.
Muted sobs, echo on stilled,
 Winds breath.
Hardening to stone, the
 Chilled heart
 Reflects frozen repose.
Forgotten amongst mine own,
Childhood symbolizes a betrayed,
 Victim’s refuge.
Small fragile hands reach out,
 Into nothingness,
Hollow space grasping into,
Chained shackles twist,
 Imaginations warped view,
Somber tones cloud troubled,
Amidst life's trials, I'm aimlessly,
Without any form of stability.
I, alone remain shambles,
Displaced and damaged,
Beyond repair.
A broken doll thrown away,
By those who should have, 
Cared for her the most.


Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2013

Details | Childhood Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Arikara Born

I like many others have lived in our dreams In this world where I lived amongst forests and streams Where the Great Plains stretched and our rivers flowed If you could see through my eyes, how my tribe glowed Born from my mother of Arikara descent My father a Sioux warrior, his stature, augment My growing up was no different than the others around For the learnings that grew from our ancestors surround Hunting and fishing, being told of the dangers in life Cultural indifferences, to fearing tribal strife But it's what my father taught me every single day To learn from our lands for through the years they'd display Tracking, seeking, searching, living from our lands Every year more learned, growing in understand From a boy to a man becoming a warrior through my years Protecting what was ours, allaying modern fears But the changes that we faced, suffocated our souls There was only ever one outcome, other man's goals I like many others, to live and eventually fall Born from Arikara, Sioux, my name was 'Standing Tall' .<*>. A little story from my heart, where the Indigenous will always be.

Copyright © James Fraser | Year Posted 2014

Details | Childhood Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Play Rain

Listen to poem:
Play rain , play melancholic tunes Play closely to my ear, I need to hear I want to listen to Sinatra's toe-tap sounds As you fall, fall slowly to the ground outside my great-grandmother's house. Play rain, Come down and break the silence Bring puddles to the desert Puddles far from clear, yet fresh enough to jump into, to jump in muddy waters to step within the dormant child to free the one I'm not from who I am Play rain, play melancholic tunes Wash away my present ,So I recall my past Let me find night's music as you patter on the old tin roof like a symphonic flute. Let me search for who I am , who I was why, and where Why do I fight this little girl inside ? This little girl who screams , who begs, who yearns to run, to get her white shirt soaking wet to splish and to splash , to be whom She's meant to be Daughter of the wild. Rain , rain, come again Let those drip drops stream , over my shoulders All way down my back, and across my thighs. Let me sail upon your rivers Holy waters - Dirty Waters Any water, better than a dry land where only cactus will survive. Rain, rain, Let me feel your touch upon my lips Rub gently against my skin Let me taste your every trickle Rebirth in me with all the blowing winds Cleanse all sweet hypocratic lies, anytime Tease me with your whisper Evoke in me the childhood magic Make it last throughout the years Rain, rain, pour down your sky light showers Let them hide away my fears Fears, tears, Fears...and more tears. Rain, rain , play and make me smile.
Inspired by Nikko's blog about Rain , Thanks Nikko !

Copyright © Charmaine Chircop | Year Posted 2016

Details | Childhood Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Tangled Vines

I walk along the old familiar path in the wood of my childhood - the place that I willingly abandoned for the lure of new friends and activities that carried me ever farther from my simple carefree days. Nothing here is quite the same, and all that once was large to my child’s eyes has grown small. How can it be? The houses on the fringe of this old wood are the same houses we always came upon as children as we ran - exuberant wild Indians of our enchanted forest - away from our foes and into the safety of “clearings” - those back yards of neighbors whom we never really knew. Our small legs ran so quickly down that well-worn long-ago path in the days when we were soldiers hastening to secure our forts. Other times we searched for treasures in the wood's crevices, finding - one day - bed springs, metal pieces, and old mattresses and converting them into contraptions for jumping. I tread slowly, noticing how many spots along my way are now overrun with weeds and tangled vines. How did I ever not notice there were vines here at all? They must have been well hidden off our path. Perhaps a kindly neighbor kept the pathway clear of them out of consideration for all us kids. I cannot know. . . It was so long ago. I glimpse the raspberry bushes we used to happily discover each summer when fuzzy berries showed brightly red and plump. And there’s old man Miller’s house, whose fence we used to climb so we might quickly steal the juicy apples fallen from his tree. Sadness tugs at my heart. The tree has vanished, and in the place of old man Miller’s shed now sits a swing set looking barely used. I head toward the center of this miniature forest recalling how it used to hold such grandness in my young imagination. The pond where we used to skate in winter has disappeared as well. In its place is a broad high pile of dirt, and at the north outer edge in the distance I can see diverse machines used for excavation. Maybe soon the wood will be cut down. Though small, this place was once so wondrous! I think back to our Christmas vacations, looking for the perfect little hill to drag our sleds up- and the thrill of barely missing trees as we slid back down. Everything was magical, crisp and clean. Suddenly I trip on tangled vines I’ve failed to see. The vines are stumbling blocks that have blotted out the utter charm this locale once held for me. You’d think that being smaller to my grown-up eyes, the wood would seem even simpler now. But no, it’s lost the grace of my simple and easy childhood days; It’s become a labyrinth of too lush plant life. I think how - like my complicated life - this old familiar place is decaying and is overwhelmed with all these obnoxious vines and how one day - like the pond and Mr. Miller’s apple tree - this dear wood will have vanished. inspired by events of my childhood and the contest of Constance la France and now for Caleb Smith's In the Woods Poetry Contest

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2013

Details | Childhood Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

She Calls Me Home

She Calls Me Home…

At days long end
Left on troubles shore
When I just know
I can't take anymore
When the last light
Of hope is gone

She calls me home
She calls me home

When my thoughts
Are racing round
And I can't find
A friend in this town
When every door
Has turned out wrong

She calls me home
She calls me home

She calls me home
To her embrace
Wipes the tears
From my tortured face

Calms my soul
Til the demons are gone
And with her sweet voice
She calls me home

When the dark
Won't give up light
When the wrong
Outscores the right
When the noise
Outdoes the song

She calls me home
She calls me home

When the clouds
Won't seem to break
And the sky
Just seems to ache
And the sun's
Completely gone

She calls me home
She calls me home

She calls me home
To her embrace
Wipes the tears
From my tortured face

Calms my soul
Til the demons are gone
And with her sweet voice
She calls me home

Copyright © James Burns | Year Posted 2012

Details | Childhood Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

A Greener Grass

You think I have a pretty face My dresses weaved from frills and lace You think that I'm a spoilt brat with diamonds around my neck and roses in my bed You think I own the pot of gold A blissful future to behold You think I live on a greener grass but you know nothing No ,you know nothing about my past There are chapters still on hold A thousand words untold There's emotion still enclosed in a lacrimal drop There is a tasteless tale,a colourless spume and large waves that fall on the shore There's a silent cry which keeps yelling why which keeps loving and hating,mending and breaking Pushing ,embracing our God My unfaithful devotion keeps begging in motion Asking what,where,when,and how long For how long should I wait for to feel the affection, love and protection to listen to daddy singing for me just one birthday song For how long should I pray for,to listen to daddy just calling out my name on the phone You think I have a pretty face My dresses weaved from frills and lace You think that I'm a spoilt brat with diamonds around my neck and roses in my bed You think I own the pot of gold A blissful future to behold You think I live on a greener grass but you know nothing No, you know nothing about my past You know nothing about the way I feel About deep scars that would never heal You just keep thinking that I live I live on a greener grass.

Copyright © Charmaine Chircop | Year Posted 2015

Details | Childhood Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

A Joyless Job

At the window, palms under my chin,
such beauty I see, out the frosted pane,
I was mesmerized, it showed in my grin,
so picture perfect, the snow covered lane.

My daydream was dashed, Mom called from the door,
"time to brave the cold and clear the sidewalk,"
grabbed my winter coat and boots from the floor,
I hate this chore, but knew not to back-talk.

"Don't slip on the ice, watch out for the plow,"
I hear, as orange shovel meets concrete,
shouldn't the county have this done by now?,
this takes all day, with snow piled up in feet.

Why freeze for allowance, I'll never know,
yet, I still find myself shoveling snow.

November 18th, 2014

Sara Kendrick's contest - "Jobs"

Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2014

Details | Childhood Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Footprints to Follow

Father’s bare feet left footprints in the sand
Young son followed, each step carefully planned

Tim wanted so much to be like his Dad
Always emulating, quite a sweet lad

So as you leave impressions on life’s shore
Remember your path will not be ignored

Tread gently, leave prints that make your kids proud
Step far away from the perilous crowd

Stop at times, build sandcastles, pick up shells
Memories can’t be erased by sea swells

Imprints on children’s hearts last forever
Keep this in mind through every endeavor

A child may be following your footsteps
Always make your marks with loving precepts

*Entry for Francine's "Barefoot" contest

Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2011

Details | Childhood Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Halloween's Headless Horseman

One Halloween night when I was five
Rain pelted city streets, we stayed inside

Dad lit the Jack-o-lantern candle
Told us the tale of a famous vandal

One “Headless Horseman” in Sleepy Hollow
‘Twas Ichabod Crane he chose to follow

Crane ran breathlessly, was terrorized
(At this point my father’s eyes looked wild)

Thundering behind him through the forest
The hooves of a horse and a rider headless

Carrying a sword to strike Ichabod
(Dad grabbed a spatula, swung it like a rod)

Not just we children but our mother too
Gasped at the thought of Ichabod pursued

High winds cut off our electrical power
As in our kitchen three children cowered

Orange light from the pumpkin’s evil eyes
Showed Dad seemed to have dematerialized

The youngest, I felt something run through my hair
I screamed aloud in horror and despair

The lit pumpkin fell from table to floor
Darkness as I ran through the kitchen door

Leaping into bed, pulling up the sheets
Dad snuck into my room, whispered, “Trick or treat”

So if you think I am a drama queen
Please realize that it’s all in my genes

Happy Halloween!

Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2010

Details | Childhood Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.


On the southern side of the old cemetery, corner of Gilmore and 1st, a field claimed by children, was crosshatched with tracks It was riddled by gopher holes, and nettled with blackberry bushes and bare feet constructed cupped paths, trampled deep in tall amber grass. It wasn't far beyond a patched wire fence that hemmed my Grandmother's russet old house. Westerly whirlwinds would rattle the ragweed and seeds of the bull-thorns, that prickled our toes would race with the tumbleweeds, tossed into rows like last winter's snowmen Traces of honeysuckle mixed with wild rose from Grandma's old arbor, which loomed in the distance A rusty old weathervane, cruised 'round, and 'round The ivy was overgrown, and a sleepy old hound snoozed by the clothesline, in the shade he had found But, deep in the field, was a land of our own A place we called 'Neverland', our loft in the wind In the yoke of one tree, with the help of our dad was a fort built of scrap wood, from piles by the shed. And by hook or by crook, I would take all commands While my brother's brewed brainstorms, and his black plastic hook, assigned him the Captain, while I was the crew of a ramshackle galleon, brought to life from our books While I dangled in air, from a tired old swing "Tinker", my this masculine game... I would push off, while he pulled me, right up to the sky and into the branches, crisp leaves in my eyes...... I would fly to the depth's of the steel gray-blue sky I would grovel, and shovel, to have his approval........ for he was much older, much wiser than me and I would play like a tomboy,.....shove doll-drums away, on hot summer days......while red splintered rays of dry summer sun, would spotlight our play. We would stay until twilight, to watch the sun die Defying all gravity.......I could see to eternity Tootsie Pops clinging to the tip of our tongues while the sun of the twilight, dipped over the dunes and the call of our mother, slipped over the moon
____________________________________________________________ Premiere Contest number 2Poetry Sponsor: Skat

Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2014

Details | Childhood Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Like a Rock

I carry my mother 
like a rock in my pocket 

that I just can’t seem to throw away 

It serves me 
no purpose, 
it just weighs me down 

When I first found it, 
when I first picked it up 
and started carrying it with me, 

I thought it so beautiful – 
I could look at it for hours 

But, like my mother, 
it never looked back at me, 
never grew warm under my loving gaze 

For the longest, I was blind to that, 
Blind to anything but the beauty, 
blind to the cold, hard, 
beyond-remote nature of the rock,
of my mother,
my stone


I carry my mother,
a thought without weight

And she’s heavier

and she’s colder

than all the stones
there are

By the time I recognized her 
immutable, emotional unavailability, 
I had run out of joy,
felt depleted of hope –

But I could not,
for the life of me,
stop seeking a beauty, a warmth,
inside her heart

Could not stop
that one day this stone,
my mother,
deep inside my pocket,

Might just become
its own opposite –

Change from hard to fluid,
from cold to warm

But my rock, my hard burden,
will only turn to water

When my mother
stops being
a stone

Copyright © Rev. Rebecca Guile Hudson | Year Posted 2005

Details | Childhood Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Gold Star

I remember as a young boy, going out to play, I would sometimes see old Mr. Kimball, sitting on the steps of his porch, often reading the paper. World War II was in full swing so the newspapers and radios were avidly sought out for the latest news.  Mr. Kimball was a fireman, and probably not even that old, but he seemed that way to me.

Sometimes, he would invite me to sit with him and we would talk about everything and nothing.  I loved spending time with him because, he was the only grown up I knew that took the time to entertain the mind of a young boy.

In his front window hung a small flag. It had a red border surrounding a white field, upon which there were two blue stars.  I was always curious about it, so I asked him what it was.  He said “It's a Sons in Service flag.  One star for each son serving.  You remember my boys don't you?”  I did of course.  Chuck, the oldest, used to tease me, calling me a sissy to get a reaction.  Bobby was a couple of years younger, and the bike I was riding once had been his.

Mr. Kimball went on to explain how Chuck was now in the Army and fighting in France.  Bobby was in the Navy, aboard a ship somewhere in the Pacific.  He didn't say it, but I'm sure he was worried about both, communications being what they were back then.

One day, when I was walking over to see him, I noticed that the flag had changed.  It now carried one blue star, but the other one was gold.  With the innocence that comes of being a child, I asked what the gold star meant.  He quietly said “It means Chuck is coming home”, and without further comment, he turned and went in the house.

A couple of days later, I saw a hearse pull up to the Kimballs house, and four men carry a flag draped box up the porch steps.  That is the moment the meaning of war came to a small boy.  I knew Chuck was home.

Copyright © Bob Quigley | Year Posted 2012